


When Love and Death Embrace

by drimnotgaywatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Overdosing, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drimnotgaywatson/pseuds/drimnotgaywatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John only wants one miracle for Sherlock not to be dead. But the Sherlock that John knew had died when he took that leap and left it all behind. John deserved better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Got hit with Reichenbach feels. I have no excuses. Tags and warnings will be updated as the work continues.

_It's only forever, it's not long at all._  
_Lost and lonely._  
_Underground._

John Hamish Watson had only one wish and that was for Sherlock Holmes not to be dead. Sherlock always worked miracles. John never really asked for much. He just wanted one miracle. 

“Only one miracle,” John stood close by the headstone said solemnly. “for me, Sherlock.” it came out more like a broken plea as the man squeezed his eyes shut. The headstone was cool against his finger tips. 

He came back every week for two years. The others worried about him, even Molly Hooper. Though Molly has really kept her distance, probably feeling as much hurt as everyone else. Or perhaps she moved on. They all had. They went on with their lives as if Sherlock Holmes” wasn't a huge part of it. He could almost hear Sherlock's “I told you so.” see the roll of his eyes. He could picture that face. The face that he couldn't stand, he missed that face so much. 

His knees shook and he dropped to the ground; forehead pressed against the headstone; shoulders shaking and tears wet on his face. 

“You... you told me once that you weren't a hero." his voice shook and he tried to compose himself.  
"Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, an' the most human... human being that I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. That's so. There. I was so alone, and I owe you so much, and I am so alone again. I-I don't want to be alone. I-I need you.” 

All of the times John had done this in the past unbeknown by him there were watchful eyes on him, Mycroft. He kept an eye on the doctor. But this time, it wasn't the older Holmes brother or one of his connections keeping an eye on him. It was a tall figure that loomed by a tree not too far away watching John closely. His face was hard.  
It had been two years since he had last stepped foot in London. Two years undercover trying to disband what was left of Moriarty's Network. Two years since he stepped off of the edge of a building and cut himself away from the people he cared most about. Cared. It's still such a foreign word to him and yet he cared so deeply.

_John._

He wishes he could take those few steps and tell the other man that he was here. That he was alive, that John didn't have to wish for any miracles. 

He shook his head. 

_No._

Sherlock didn't deserve to have John back in his life, not after what he had done and how he had to do it; in secret with only so many people who knew. Without John being one of those people. John would never forgive him. He'd rather John remember him how he was, not how he is now...a shell of the person he once knew, the one that he had left behind. That Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Instead Sherlock turned and disappeared from the cemetery, the key to 221B in his pocket—a heavy reminder that it would be empty.


	2. Chapter 2

“I don't think I can do it anymore Mrs. Hudson. Be up there without him.”  
John had his face in his hands.

He had been wandering the streets of London, having left the cemetery hours ago.  
The crowded walkways made him feel a little less alone. 

John had just returned not too long ago, not being able to bring himself to go up the stairs. He turned to his land lady instead. 

She had been very patient with him. Caring. She worried about him a lot, and never really minded when he couldn't give her all of the rent.

“Oh John.”  
The land lady crooned but her attempts of comfort were interrupted by a loud sounding thump coming from upstairs. 

“What in the world?” John's eyes darted to the ceiling, fingers already digging for his key as Mrs. Hudson's hand flew up to her chest, in fright. 

John was out of his seat, more alert then he had been in months of watching life go by in slow motion.  
He squeezed Mrs. Hudson's shoulders in reassurance and told her he was going to see what was going on. 

Avoiding the steps that made any noise of distress John made his way up the stairs in caution. The door, slightly ajar. He examined the door closely. There was no sign of forced entry. He tested the door knob and it was unlocked.

Odd. 

The only ones that had keys to 221B were himself, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and to everyone's misfortune Mycroft. 

He wouldn't be here now.  
It had been two years and Mycroft had never stopped by not once to pick up Sherlock's things or anything of the sort.

 

John took a cautious step into the flat, his eyes wandering around. Nothing was out of place. Everything seemed normal. He went deeper into the flat, eyes still searching. 

He took a step into the living room and everything seemed to be perfectly f—he stopped dead in his tracks and he could feel the color drain from his face. Mind racing because he seen yet he could not believe.

“No, no, no. It can't be.” 

_It couldn't. It can't. It just can't._

John shook some sense into himself as he dropped himself to his knees next to the figure that laid face down on the floor. Emotions coursed through him as he reached out and took Sherlock's pulse. His skin was cold and clamy. Fever no doubt..and his pulse was erratic. So different than the pulse he took from him so long ago. 

As he took Sherlock's pulse something in his hand kept poking at him. John picked it out of his fingers. It was a folded up piece of paper, some kind of note.

_It’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note._

John exhaled shakily and opened the note hesitantly. It was a list.  
A list of all the drugs he has taken.  
_He should have known._  
His fingers shook as he read the paper his jaw setting in a hard line.

The contents on this list could kill a person.  
_Idiot, idiot, idiot._  
John dug into his pocket for his phone and immediately called Emergency.


End file.
